An Age Old Perspective
by ByThePrickingOfMyThumbs
Summary: Hal reflects on his past. Set just before he rescues Leo.


**Disclaimer: Being Human is owned by the BBC.**

_Hal reflects on his life so far. Set in 1955, just before he frees Leo._

He could barely remember his life before he was recruited. It was as if he had been living behind a veil, never noticed, never important, never _recognised_ by the rest of society.

He was recognised now, though. He was feared.

The first kill is always the hardest - that's what they all said. That little bit of humanity still remains; it whines and protests and _begs_ that what you are doing is wrong. But the hunger wins out. The hunger always wins out in the end. And little by little that stubborn corner of kindness disintegrates, getting weaker and weaker until it is banished to the furthest corner of your mind.

Oh, it still appears, now and then. The low that inevitably comes after a major kill, the melancholic feeling you get when it's all _over. _He tries to disguise it as boredom, or a passing fancy that he will soon be rid of. But deep in his black heart he knows that it's his conscience.

He remembers his first kill as clearly as if he had just stepped from the room that very minute, blood dripping off his chin for the very first time.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

He had woken in the relative darkness of the surgeon's tent, and all at once his senses had been ambushed by the sounds and sights and smells of war. Heavy shoes crunched into the hardened snow outside with sickening clarity; the footsteps must have come from near the stables - nearly a quarter of a mile away - but the sound was distractingly loud to his newly heightened senses. The metallic tang of blood remained in the air, and he remembered wondering vaguely if it was his own.

He slipped off the cold wooden slats of the make-shift bed and surveyed his surroundings. The suffocating blackness of night had crept across the battlefield, engulfing everything it encountered. There was a hastily written note on the table next to the bed. It was scrawled in what he presumed to be Polish - he couldn't read anything at all, so it hardly mattered what language it was in.

Even by that time a dull ache had settled in his stomach, a nagging, insistent sensation that couldn't quite be described as painful, but was nevertheless distracting enough to fill his every thought if he allowed it to. It was hunger - but nothing like the sensation he had previously attributed to that word. The human idea of hunger was pitiful, weak and pathetic in comparison. This was all-consuming, the sort of hunger one can only understand through experience.

He ignored the note and grabbed a jacket from the end of the bed. It was smart and clean, and almost certainly belonging to the surgeon. He always remembered the feel of the material, soft enough to be comfortable, yet thick enough to provide a barrier between the biting cold and his skin. He had never worn anything so smart before.

There was a village less than a mile away, and that was where he went next. Even now, more than 400 years later, he can still feel the emotions he experienced on that short walk. Yes, his physical body had already been altered that day, frozen forever - but it was the psychological change that felt like the biggest upheaval. As he walked away from the battlefield he could almost _feel_ the dark drudgery of his past life fall away. Gone was the scrawny brothel boy who had never been wanted. He had been given the ultimate gift, and he was going to make the most of it. He had never again felt as _liberated_ as he did that day, when his hopes and ambitions could unfurl on a blank canvas, as white as the virgin snow around him.

He had taken less than a few footsteps into the small town - in fact, he had barely passed the first building - when he noticed her. She was loitering in the doorway, standing just inside the frame to protect her body from the biting wind. However, as he caught her eye she stood up straighter and looked him over. After just a single glance she rearranged her features into a smile and beckoned to him.

Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly indulgent, he would think back to that moment and wonder if she had seen something in him that day - something new, something intriguing, something that would give a hint to the powerful figure he was to become. In reality, though, she had probably just seen the surgeon's coat and assumed him to be rich.

She led him down a dark corridor - her name, he learnt, was Zofia. The room he found himself him was very different to the brothel he had grown up in. Back there, the damp had spread across the walls like a malingering shadow, and the floor - filthy from the dirt of too many men's shoes - was almost never cleaned. But here, the room was clean and seemed almost fresh. He had seen into the partially-opened doorways of several other rooms as she led him to this one, though, and he knew he was being treated to the best in the establishment.

She was a pretty young woman, perhaps 20 years old, with long blonde hair and startlingly pale skin. He had let her take charge at first, sliding his coat off his stiff shoulders, then running her hands up his shirt and lifting it up over his head. She smiled seductively and loosened her dress, letting it slip down her arms ever so slightly. He found himself staring at the exposed skin of her neck, and imagined the feel of the blood pumping out from the artery, staining her pale skin with fresh crimson...

The fangs had protruded slowly, growing out of his teeth as if hesitant, unsure. He didn't notice them until he felt one push against his lip. Zofia had moved forwards in this time, until she was almost touching him. She hadn't noticed his teeth, perhaps assuming his hesitation was through embarrassment or nerves. He considered striking now, sinking his fangs into that too-pale neck and _forcing_ some colour from it. But no, that could wait. He may as well enjoy her first.

She looked relieved when he finally moved towards her, reaching for her dress and pulling it down, off her slim body until it collected in crumpled folds at her feet. She stepped lightly out of it and wrapped her arms around his neck, leading him to the bed. It was clean and comfortable, so different from the dirty masses of sheets and clothes that had constituted a 'bed' in his childhood home.

She was very good, and knew exactly what to do. He managed to control himself until a faint flush of exertion began to form in her cheeks. It stained her perfect white complexion, hot blood rushing to the surface of her skin. He wasn't sure at what point his self-control snapped; all he remembered was the sudden, glorious feel of blood on his lips. He felt her body struggle, then quiver slightly, then become a leaden weight in his arms.

It was messy and crude, his teeth had punctured in more places than he recalled - bite marks were spread across her neck, shoulders and even into the soft skin of her cheeks. Her eyes were half-closed and the ghost of a scream lingered on her lips, not quick enough to escape the confines of her now still body. He pushed himself to his knees, still straddling the poor woman's now lifeless form, and surveyed the mess he'd made. It seemed fitting that this once fancy room was now reduced to the squalor and filth of his childhood, blood staining the walls and floor, sheets crumpled into the corner of the bed.

It was still dark when he left the brothel. There was a frozen lake nearby; he had to break the surface of the ice to access the cool water beneath. He crouched by the small hole he had made, washing the rapidly drying blood from his clothes and body. As he rocked back onto his heels, icy water dripping from his hair, he noticed the sun beginning to rise over the hills. A new dawn. His life had begun.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

It didn't take long for him to reinvent himself. Gone was useless, obsolete Hal, who had done nothing in his short life but get in the way of his _betters_. He had hated that word. _Betters_. If only his _betters_ could've seen what he became - fearless, bloodthirsty Lord Harry, famous even amongst vampires.

That was his problem, Mr Snow had always told him. He wanted things he couldn't have. The thrill was in the chase for Lord Harry. He would watch for a while, pick out his target - the least attainable? the most desirable?... it was funny how often the two coincided - and then he would implement his plans. Sometimes he would be kind and sweet, showering the woman with gifts and adoration. Sometimes he would be mysterious and aloof, waiting patiently for _her_ to come to _him_. And sometimes he would just take her in the dead of night; the darkness hid so many misdeeds.

It wasn't sustainable, that was what Mr Snow had always told him. Sooner or later you want something you can never have, and your world comes crashing down around you. He had never listened to the older man, he was too busy having fun.

It was during the 18th century that his name first began to be recognised in the hallowed halls of the vampire elders. He had gained confidence in the preceding 200-odd years, and with confidence came a strange, melancholic boredom. His exploits became grander and more shocking with each passing year, but the blood alone never seemed enough. It was strange, though, how much knowledge one picks up just through _living_. He had learnt to read, which in itself was rare for a gutter-urchin like him. But he was no longer a gutter-urchin, and he knew he could do better. He had dedicated himself to perfecting his literacy, and with that came a smooth, flowing handwriting to match his silky confidence.

Oh, he knew that the extra attention he was gaining was dangerous. He quickly lost count of the number of near misses - hidden crucifixes, wry priests armed with sharpened stakes - there were a surprising number of threats, even then.

Sometimes the experiences still pained him to this day, but many were laughable; the pitiful resistance of humanity on show for the whole world to see. One time - it must have been towards the beginning of the 19th century - he and Fergus had alerted the suspicions of a nearby monastry. Admittedly, they hadn't exactly been discrete...

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The house they had chosen was at random. Returning to England for the first time in decades, they had disembarked in Plymouth and made their way inland. Fergus had a single coin in his pocket, and that was how they chose their prey. At every junction, every fork in the path - _heads for left, tails for right_. Fergus always liked to play games with his victims. It took much longer, but he had nothing better to do so he humoured the younger vampire.

The house they ended up at couldn't have been better. They sauntered down the long, tree-lined drive; he had picked leaves from the overhanging branches and shredded them through his fingernails, imagining them to be the flesh of a human neck, anticipating the warm, sticky blood that would inevitably follow. The front door was locked, so they split up. Having an almost invincible body must have made bursting through a window that little bit more alarming to the inhabitants. Shards of razor-sharp glass shattered around him, and he took care not to flinch or even blink. A similar splintering sound reached his ears; Fergus had clearly copied his actions somewhere else in the house.

The drawing room he found himself in was extravangantly decorated and richly furnished. Heavy wooden bookcases lined every wall, giving the room a strangely heightening effect. It was such a pointless architectural trend, making rooms taller than they needed to be.

Despite this, he still managed to spray the ceiling with blood.

Afterwards, sucking the blood from his fingertips like a satisfied child, he had gone in search of a change of clothes. To this day he still didn't know what made him approach the window of the master bedroom. Perhaps it was the simple joy of seeing English soil once again, the endlessly stretching fields and valleys. Perhaps it was a morbid curiosity about the man he had so recently killed, who would now never again look through the window of his own bedroom. Whatever made him do it, it probably saved his life.

About two dozen monks were advancing stealthily through the trees. His sharp eyesight picked out the crude wooden stakes in their hands, juxtaposed bizarrely with the ornate and intricate crucifixes they also wielded. A young girl cowered beside one of the men, her once smartly pressed maid's apron now torn and coated with various layers of dirt. He made a swift calculation - he and Fergus couldn't have been there for more than half and hour, but that was more than enough time for a quick-thinking young maid to escape the house and return with reinforcements.

The monks didn't catch up with them until later that night, trapped on a windswept peninsula with the biting Atlantic breeze on their backs. He was oddly impressed with their perseverance. The sheer force of belief emnating from them was enough to send the two vampires staggering backwards, until there was little but empty space behind them. The cliff wasn't too high, but the bitter wind toyed with the ocean below, making creatures even as old as them cower slightly before the wrath of nature.

The monks began chanting prayers, and every syllable felt like a punch to the chest. A single shared glance told him that Fergus was thinking the same as him.

There was something oddly freeing about allowing yourself to tip backwards into empty space, relinquishing your body to the ever-changing whims of the stormy seas.

The drop wasn't far - perhaps 30ft - but it felt like eternity, even to his aged perspective. The freezing water claimed him as soon he reached it, toying with him like a cat with a mouse. Through foggy, green-tinted eyes, he watched Fergus being thrown about by the currents - and was quietly astonished at how powerless his companion looked. Was that how he also looked at that moment?

He thought back to how he had treated the people back at that random, coin-decided house that afternoon, and the thousands of others over the years. He had often enjoyed taking the time to just watch them first, to gauge their reactions to the situation. Some wept, some cowered, but a few just stared back defiantly. He always liked those people best. They always cracked in the end, of course, everyone had a weak point. Often it was the slow, torturous killing of a loved one that broke their facade, but a minority refused to yield even to that, their faces set in stony malevolence. He like to talk to these people, gently pushing the boundaries of their faith, their cynicism - whatever was giving them strength in the face of such horror - dismantling it from beneath them until they crumpled, defeated, at his feet.

But at that moment, at the mercy of the sea, he felt as if he was getting a taste of his own medicine. Nature was fighting back, playing him at his own game. He had thought himself above the laws of physics - he _was_ eternally young, after all - but the way in which the ever-altering flows and currents casually moved him wherever they wanted, playing with him in the lazy, almost bored way in which he often dispatched his victims, shocked him into silent submission. He had thought himself above nature; nature was showing him exactly how it really was.

The two of them had eventually washed up, exhausted, onto the coarse sand of the shore. One of Fergus's shoes had beaten them to it - it lay damp and forlorn on the beach like an abandoned child. Although he hadn't looked in a mirror for several centuries, he imagined he had looked a bit like that shoe at that moment. It was a sobering experience.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Only now though, reflecting on his experiences, did he truly see the wisdom in Mr Snow's words. After nearly 500 years of running, a sudden realisation came upon him. Perhaps that one truely unattainable goal was one he had never even considered before. The ultimate bloodthirsty vampire, truly renouncing blood? Could it be done?

There was only one way to find out, and he had a feeling that strangely impassive werewolf downstairs could help him...


End file.
